


to live in between

by pdameron



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: There, in the mirror, is an old man. An old man, where Q should be.“Hmm. That’s vexing.”--The Howl's Moving Castle AU that absolutely no one asked for.





	1. in which q meets two wizards in one day

**Author's Note:**

> This'll have more elements from Diana Wynne Jones's book than most Howl's Moving Castle AU's I've seen (a grown up Michael/Markl aka Eve and so on), simply because the book is one of my all-time favorites.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title taken from a lyric in Into the Woods

If Q’s younger self could see where he is now, at 22, he would be bitterly disappointed. 

This isn’t to say that Q is unhappy with his lot in life: he’s actually perfectly content, most days. But eight-year-old Q had had dreams of being a famous inventor, of building new and exciting creations every day; of a life bigger than this town on the cape. 

Being a blacksmith (well, a blacksmith’s apprentice) isn’t so bad, he reasons. He still gets to tinker with his tools and take things apart, even if it’s on stoves and carriages and swords and pistols rather than his own contraptions.

Q would be lying to himself, however, if he didn’t admit to longing for something more. He’s spent more nights than he could count staring out the window of his modest quarters above the smithy's, sketchbook in hand and thoughts far away from his small life.    
  


 

****

 

 

 

Q never knows what to do with himself on his days off. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy them; lord knows it’s nice to have a break from the endless line of horseshoes and buckles. He just - doesn’t have a lot of options, usually. He doesn’t have anyone to spend his free time with: the extent of his social circle is Major Boothroyd, the old blacksmith who serves as his landlord-slash-mentor.

He leaves with his sketchbook in his satchel and some change in his pocket for lunch, but not before Boothroyd gives him yet another warning about dangerous wizards roaming the seaside. Apparently, the Wizard Bond’s moving castle has come to rest only a few miles from town. The rumor is that the man steals the hearts from the chests of his beautiful lovers (usually young, pretty girls) and eats them. Or was it that he steals their souls? Maybe he does both, and keeps the souls and hearts in little jars rather than eating them. At any rate, Q waves Boothroyd's warnings off with a laugh. The great wizard only goes for the most interesting, most ravishing, most alluring of people, and that is most definitely not Q.

He ends up wandering toward the art gallery, if only because he’s gone to the library on his past three days off. 

Q stops eventually at a painting he hasn’t seen before: a grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. It makes him a little melancholy, and yet he finds it quite poetic. 

“A bloody big ship, isn’t it?” a voice comes from his right, and Q startles badly. He glances to his right, and - 

Oh.

Standing next to him, wearing clothes possibly more expensive than anything Q  _ owns _ , is the most strikingly handsome man he’s ever seen.

“I - uh - yes, I suppose it is.”

The man smirks, dimpling in an alarmingly attractive way. He has the slightest crow’s feet around his eyes, and - Goodness, but they’re blue. The brightest, bluest eyes he’s ever seen. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I could say the same. We don’t get many handsome men dressed like gigolos in our little town,” Q winces as soon as the words leave his mouth: he’s never been particularly gifted when it comes to talking with strangers. His nerves tend to get the best of him, and he always ends up putting his foot in his mouth spectacularly.

The man looks insulted for perhaps half a second, before he bursts out laughing, warm and deep and full. “I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

Q feels himself color slightly; damn his pale complexion. “I - I don’t either, really,” he says, and the man laughs again. Q just knows the blush on his cheeks is darkening. “I just meant that - that you don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“I’m not,” the man replies, and Q has a feeling that’s all he’s going to get from him on the subject.

Q expects, at any point, for the man to wander away, for his attention to be grabbed by some piece of art or pretty girl walking by. Perhaps another blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty, like the man himself. But he doesn’t. He seems perfectly content to stand with Q by this old painting.

“So, what brings you to the seaside?” It would be rude to just turn back and take in the painting, even if that’s what Q would prefer to do. He’s never been particularly loquacious. 

“Oh, this and that. I’m always going to new places and meeting new and interesting people. Like, say, charming young men who enjoy insulting strangers.”

Q can’t help his laugh at that, more of a giggle than anything else. The man looks awfully smug about causing it. 

“What’s your - ” The man glances behind Q, and cuts himself off with a grimace. “Damn.”

Q furrows his brow, confused. “What is it? What’s wro -  _ hey! _ ”

The man has wrapped an arm around him, mid-sentence. Q feels his indignant exclamation is justified.

“Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. It’s my weakness, you see; a pretty face.”

Q just stares at the man, incredulous. “What are you  _ talking _ about?”

“I’ll explain later. For now, just hold on tightly.”

Before Q can even open his mouth to answer, the man is taking him by the hand and pulling him  _ through the wall _ , including the painting.

And they’re off, running through wall after wall, building after building (surely they’re invisible: otherwise the people they’re passing would be shouting in alarm) until they find themselves in a small alley ten blocks away. 

“You - you’re a  _ wizard _ ?” Q would be more excited about meeting a wizard if he weren’t so alarmed. So he settles for an accusing tone rather than one of wonder at having witnessed  _ real magic _ .

The man turns from where he’s been keeping a lookout. He raises an unimpressed brow. “What gave me away?”

Q scowls at him. “I think I’m allowed a question or twenty. I’ve never even  _ met _ a wizard, let alone been kidnapped by one.”

“I didn’t kidnap you. I was protecting you.”

“From what?”

The wizard shifts uneasily, a guilty look crossing his face. “I...may have spotted some familiar faces back at the gallery. Unfriendly faces.”

It isn’t hard to connect the dots. “And what, now they think I’m  _ with _ you?”

He gets an apologetic look for his troubles. “I really am sorry about that. I hadn’t realized I was being followed.”

Q throws up his hands, exasperated and more than a little flustered. “Oh, well as long as you’re  _ sorry _ .”

Q takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, runs a frustrated hand through his hair, then replaces them, turning to the wizard determinedly. 

The man looks almost amused by Q’s vexation, and it makes him want to tear his hair out.

“I’ve shirked them for now, I think. At least let me get you home, for my own peace of mind.”

“Not for  _ my _ own safety?”

That smirk from before returns full force as the wizard offers Q his arm to take. “Well, that too.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Q takes it, cheeks reddening at the pleased look he receives. The wizard tugs him a little closer, and Q braces himself for yet another round of wall-phasing. The man goes into a crouch, and - 

Q lets out a yelp as - rather than walking forward - the wizard jumps and sends them flying upward, into the air and onto the nearest roof.

Without thinking, he latches himself onto the wizard, arms clutched around his (firm, very firm) middle as soon as they’re back on their feet. He feels more than hears the chuckle he receives for this, as he refuses to look up and remove his face from where it’s pressed fearfully into the man’s chest. A strong arm wraps around Q, rubbing calming circles against his back. 

“As cozy as this is, I’m going to need you to point me in the right direction.”

Q takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and peeks an eye open, peering up at the wizard. 

“I live at the smithy’s. On Vauxhall Crossing. Do you know where that is?”

The man nods, and Q immediately scrunches his eyes closed again. 

“You might have more fun, darling, if you open your eyes.”

Q lifts his head to look at the man in disbelief. “What about this could possibly be - ”

His sentence gets swallowed in a yell as the wizard pushes them off the roof, jumping from one chimney to the next effortlessly. If Q weren’t so terrified, he’d be awed at the way they just seem to float on air. Eventually his curiosity wins out over his terror, and he looks down at the people below their feet.

“Can’t they see us?”

“Why, don’t you want to be seen with a dashing wizard?”

“A dashing kidnapper,” Q replies, though his snark is somewhat undercut by the way he nervously tightens his grip on the man’s waist.

“Dashing kidnapper n é e wizard,” the man settles on with a laugh. 

It feels like mere minutes until he’s being set down onto the balcony outside his quarters.

“I - thank you, I suppose, for trying to help me. By abducting me,” Q starts, adjusting his glasses nervously. “And thank you for bringing me home without dropping me to my death.”

The wizard smiles, small and gentle, and though Q has seen him smirk and grin a dozen times by now, this somehow feels the most genuine. “It was my pleasure.”

Q barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. “I can hardly imagine my screaming was pleasurable for you.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re quite adorable when you’re all ruffled, little bird.”

And with that, the wizard gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek before climbing back up onto the railing of the balcony. “Until we meet again.”

A dramatic bow, a wink, and he’s gone.

 

 

*****

 

 

Q spends the rest of the evening in a daze, half-convinced he’d imagined his mysterious wizard companion. He’s prone to daydream, he knows, but this afternoon had been a whole new level of fantastic and outlandish. 

By the time Boothroyd goes to bed and Q starts to lock up, he’s mostly convinced himself that the handsome man with his blue eyes and incredible magic had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

It is as he’s putting away Boothroyd’s tools (the man is awfully scatterbrained; his hammers and screwdrivers always end up spread across room willy-nilly) that he discovers how very real it all was.

A man walks into the smithy, and Q pops his head up from behind Boothroyd’s desk where a wrench had fallen. He’s older, maybe in his early forties, with a painful-looking scar cutting through his right eye. 

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, we’re closed. I hadn’t gotten a chance to lock the door yet.”

No reply. The man just stares at Q thoughtfully, as if he were an unusual little oddity that needed figuring out. 

“Sir? Did you hear me? We’re closed.”

Still nothing, though the man smirks at Q’s words. As if to say, ‘you may be closed, but not to me.’ 

Q simply has no patience for rude people, especially ones that condescend. He stands, walking toward the man and crossing his arms.

“I don’t know if you’re being purposefully obtuse or just plain rude, but we’re closed. Which means that you are not welcome here, sir. I’d ask you to come again tomorrow, but to be frank, I’d rather you just leave.”

The man, inexplicably, begins to chuckle; a mirthless, mocking thing. “I can see why he likes you. You’re a plucky little thing, aren’t you?” The man has an odd accent, one Q can’t quite place.

“Pardon?”

The man tsks disapprovingly. “Now, now, young man. Coy isn’t a good look on you.”

“And cryptic isn’t particularly flattering on you. Are you going to tell me what you want, or are you going to keep being vague and patronizing?” Q knows he has a sharp tongue, but he so rarely gets to use it on someone who truly deserves it.

The man gives him a mean, menacing smile; more of a grimace, really. “My, what spirit you have. It’s not everyday someone has the audacity to insult Ernst Blofeld.”

Q shrinks back immediately, his legs hitting the table behind him in his haste to get away from the man - the  _ wizard _ . “The Spectre of the South?” he asks, petrified.

“You know, I almost feel sorry for you. It’s not your fault, really. But you have to understand, I’ve worked too hard to have some insolent boy bring him back from the edge.” Blofeld - the  _ Spectre _ \- pauses, humming thoughtfully. “But how do I fix our problem?” 

Q stiffens. What is this man, this legendary dark wizard, going to do to him?

Suddenly, Blofeld snaps his fingers, a smug smirk on his face. “That should do it. He’s hardly going to get distracted by you now, is he?”

Q doesn’t know what to say to that, because Blofeld hasn’t actually done anything, from what he can tell. The wizard doesn’t wait for an answer, though. Without another word, he walks out the way he came, looking incredibly self-satisfied.

Q stares at the door for a long while after he leaves, completely baffled. Q doesn’t know what, or who the wizard had been talking about, or what it is he’s done to Q.

He doesn’t understand, until he goes to pick up that same wrench and catches a glimpse of his hands.

His wrinkled, veiny, knobbly hands. 

He stares at them for a time, stunned. Then he races upstairs (slower than usual) to his rooms, runs into the bathroom and - 

There, in the mirror, is an old man. An old man, where Q should be.

“Hmm. That’s vexing.”

 

*****


	2. in which Q comes upon a moving castle

Being an old man, Q finds, is not as awful as he would have thought. Perhaps it's the shock, or maybe Q's generally pragmatic nature, but the panic that should be sinking in has not yet come, even the morning after his transformation. Instead, sets out a little plan for himself: first, he’ll have to leave the smithy; Boothroyd would have a conniption if he saw Q like this, and Q doesn't much fancy the thought of being a magical oddity in town. Second, he’ll leave his seaside town and head off in search of a witch or wizard who could help him. He's heard stories of kind old ladies who keep bees and make magic honey, and dashing young men who cast harmless little spells on the roses they hand to their loved ones. Surely one of those witches or wizards would be able to break this spell. 

There are only two steps to his plan, but at the moment Q's just proud of himself for making one at all. By all rights, he should be having a fit, maybe even crying a little. 

He grabs his ratty coat, pleased to find it still fits him, pulls on a knitted red cap that doesn't suit his elderly self in the slightest, and grabs a satchel to fill with his meager earnings and some food. Then he's off, walking toward the country and away from the sea.

As he walks up the steep incline of the first of what will surely be many grassy hills, Q spares a moment to be grateful for the state in which his old body appears to be: he still has his mind, after all, and he has none of the aches and pains that Boothroyd so often complains of. He also doesn't feel the need to take a nap, one of Boothroyd's favorite pastimes. 

Then his common sense catches up to his errant thoughts, and Q scolds himself. Some madman has cursed him, turned him into a decrepit old man, and here he is, feeling grateful! There's a fine line between optimism and foolishness, and Q had been walking it unsteadily with that train of thought.

"If I ever find that Spectre, I'll - I'll - I'll do something really horrible to him!" Q exclaims to himself. Perhaps not his finest threat, but he's awfully out of breath from all that walking.

Q's started talking to himself as he walks, muttering and grumbling about this and that. Old people do it all the time, he reasons, and is he not an old person? 

It's not so different from when he talks to his little projects: he likes to remind horseshoes that their little antics only end in pain for the horses they fall off, or tell the finicky rifles that their jobs are too important for them to be acting up, thank you very much. Once there had been a sorry old sword, looking worse for wear and practically wilting. Q had told the poor thing that it must be very special indeed, for its owner to bring it to a smithy and not just throw it out; he told it that it should be grateful for having such a loyal companion. Apparently, a few days after Q had returned it, the owner had bested his sworn enemy in a duel to the death. Q had been more impressed with the sword than with the man, in all honesty.

"Who was he talking about, anyway? I don't know anyone who knows the Spectre of the South. I don't even know anyone who knows anyone who knows the Spectre of the South!" he says irritably, kicking a pebble on the road. To think, he'd been hexed over of some ridiculous case of mistaken identity!

It just isn't fair, Q thinks to himself. Nothing in Q's life has been particularly fair until this point; the only fair thing to ever come to him had been Major Boothroyd and his smithy, and even that has now been taken from him. 

It’s only as he starts to reach the crest of the third hill he’s climbed that Q realizes what a pickle he’s put himself in. It’s been hours, the sun nearly set behind - oh lord, yet  _ another _ hill on the horizon. Had Q still been his young and spry self, he’d be just fine walking through the night, chill be damned. But he’s old, so old, and his bones are brittle and his hands are dry and cracking from the cold. He needs to find somewhere to sleep, to warm up, and soon.

He's starting to understand why old people complain so often, and why Boothroyd wears so many sweaters all the time. He's considering making them a permanent fixture in his wardrobe, once he figures out how to avoid freezing to death. 

This is, of course, when a great, hulking beast of a castle comes meandering up from the other side of Q's hill, puffing out smoke from its chimneys, heaving in great creaks and groans.

Q realizes at once that this must be the Wizard Bond's moving castle. It's a reasonable assumption, as most buildings don't meander at all; not even a shuffle, usually. Though to Q it looks more like a particularly old, stone, foreboding manor than a castle. He supposes 'Moving Castle' has a better ring to it than 'Moving Manor' or 'Moving Mansion' or 'Moving Big Old House.'

He’s not particularly intimidated. Maybe he's grown more calm in his old age. Or maybe it's just that he has nothing to fear from Bond any longer: it's not like the wizard is going to want the heart of a shriveled old man, no matter how young he was two days ago. 

It's this reasoning that prompts Q to holler at the castle.

"Hey! Hey you there! Stop! Let me in! Have you no pity for a poor old man?"

His little accusation does the trick, and the castle stops in its tracks. Q is beginning to understand, too, why Boothroyd liked to cite his age and guilt Q into doing what he asked. A door swings open, showing the barest hint of a fire's glow within the entry.

Well, it's either the wizard's lair or frostbite, Q reasons, and so he steps inside.

  
  


 

*****

  
  


 

The room Q finds himself in is not at all what he’d expect from a wizard’s magic castle, not that Q could say what it is he was expecting in the first place. 

It’s spacious, as is befitting a castle, but awfully bare. The beams showing along the wall and ceiling are most definitely not intentional, more likely caused by wear and tear; there’s hardly any furniture, and what little there is lacks any sort of homeliness; and what’s more, there’s not a trace of magic anywhere. Not even a black cat.

It’s a little disappointing.

Q wanders toward the fire, because, quite frankly, he’s too old and weary to care about propriety at this point. He sits down on a worn loveseat just in front of the hearth, mesmerised by the flames.The fire has more life than any he’s seen before, and seems to practically float above the logs.

“You know, it’s awfully rude to stare,” comes a voice from the corner. The man steps out of the shadows, smiling wanly. For some reason, Q doubts that he’s the great wizard Bond. He looks awfully ordinary to be a sorcerer.

“I hardly think the fire will take offence,” is what Q settles on, after taking in the sight of the man. If he can shirk the pleasantries, then why should Q have to say hello and introduce himself?

“Well, you could always ask me.”

“...ask you if I’m allowed to stare at the fire?”

“Ask me if it’s alright to stare at  _ me _ .”

“But I was looking at the fire, not you.” Q is starting to doubt his initial assessment of the man: only magical people speak in obnoxious roundabout ways like this.

“Ah, but you see…” The man pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, “I  _ am _ the fire.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

“Yes, I know, it’s - ‘alright then’?” The man cuts himself off as he registers what Q’s said. He pouts, probably put out by Q’s lack of reaction. But honestly, after the day he’s had, finding out some stranger is both a person and a ball of flames is hardly shocking.

“Are you a fire demon?”

The man rolls his eyes, distracted from his disappointment by the comparison. “No, I’m not a demon. It’s too much hassle, clutching onto some poor sod’s heart and hoping for long life. Besides, do I look like some sort of fallen star?”

“No, you look more like a solicitor,” Q replies, giving the man’s quite-boring suit a once-over.

Q gets an insulted expression for that comment. “Well, I’m not one of those either.”

"Are you, perchance, the Wizard Bond?"

A chuckle. "No, thankfully. I'm Bill Tanner."

"Bill isn't a very magical name," Q says without thinking. Even as he cringes at his own lack of tact, Tanner laughs heartily.

"I suppose it isn't, though I'm no wizard." When Q gives him a wide-eyed look, he elaborates. "I'm one of the Melino ë . That fire is my true form, and this is simply the body with which I walk through this corporeal realm."

Q furrows his brow, confused. He overlooks the fancy phrasing about forms and realms, stuck on the name itself. "What, like a nymph?"

Tanner scowls, crossing his arms. Q gets the feeling he's had this exchange before. "No, like a melino ë ."

"Yes, but aren't melino ë just evil nymphs?"

Tanner, the not-nymph, heaves an annoyed sigh. “We’re not evil. Mischievous, at best. Do I seem like I’m about to drag you to the underworld?”

Q gives it some thought, stroking his chin. He wonders, absently, if he can grow a beard now that he’s about eighty or so. The most he’s ever managed before was some patchy scruff. “No, you don’t. But you wouldn’t tell me if you were, so I can’t rule it out,” and then, because he really just can’t let this go, “I’ve never met a nymph before, but you certainly don’t look like one.”

“What, because I’m not wearing a gown and I don’t have flowers braided into my long flowing locks?”

“Well, yes.”

Tanner laughs again, before walking over and pulling a thick wool blanket from a wardrobe along the wall. He drapes it over Q’s shoulders with a kind smile. “It’s awfully cold out there. What were you doing wandering the hills at this hour, old man?”

“Oh, I was looking for a wizard.”

“Lucky for you, then, that you came across our castle,” Tanner says, leaning next to the hearth.

“I was looking for the sort of wizard that helps people, not one that eats hearts.”

Tanner cackles at that, as if Q’s told some sort of joke. Mischievous, indeed. He ignores the heart-eating comment. “What sort of help do you need a wizard for?”

“You see, I - ” Q starts to explain his situation, about the Spectre of the South and the curse, but it suddenly feels as if his throat closes up; he can’t say a word. His mouth moves, but there’s no sound. He frowns, tries again, and still nothing. 

“I can’t tell you,” Q says at last, though it comes out more as a question than a statement. It would seem that once he stops trying to talk about the curse, he can speak once more.

Isn’t that just peachy.

Tanner narrows his eyes, giving Q a shrewd look. “...I suppose it’s none of my business. Although Bond will get it out of you, I’m sure.”

“I really, really doubt it.”

  
  


 

*****   
  


 

 

Q ends up falling asleep in the chair, warmed to the bone by the fire and the blanket Tanner had given him. 

There’s a beautiful dark skinned woman staring at him when he wakes, less than a foot away from his face. Two days ago, when he’d been twenty and overexcitable, he would have shouted, maybe jumped away. But after being jinxed by a madman and seeing a wrinkled, ancient face in his mirror, Q finds that there are very few things that can startle him.

“Good morning?”

“Good morning to you, too, Grandpa.”

Q scowls. “I’m no one’s Grandfather, missy.”

The woman laughs; a pretty, twinkling thing. “You’re certainly not helping your case by calling me ‘missy.’” She turns to Tanner, who’s been watching the exchange with amusement as he leans against the hearth. “I see what you mean. We can’t just turn him out back onto the moors.”

Q frowns. He hadn’t been planning on sticking around. In fact, the moors are just where he wants to be. “I really don’t think - ”

“Tanner says you need some sort of magical help? Surely there’s no one better than a Double-Oh status wizard like Bond to help you.”

“A what now?”

“It’s the highest rank a wizard can reach, if they so choose,” Tanner explains helpfully. “Most wizards and witches are satisfied living out their lives making helpful spells and potions for their towns.”

“And so Bond…”

“Does more than that,” Tanner finishes for him. Q waits, but that’s all he seems willing to say.

The woman pulls Q up, leading him into a small kitchen area. “The stove doesn’t work, so you’ll have to settle for plain bread and cheese for breakfast,” she says, handing him a plate. It’s only when they’re all three sitting at the table that she leans forward, steeping her fingers and giving Q a shrewd look. “We have a proposition for you.”

“Does this proposition involve you dropping me off at the nearest normal sorcerer?”

A pause. “...No.”

Tanner jumps in before Q can protest. “There’s something wrong with Bond,” he says. “He’s changed, and not for the better. He’s not what he used to be. There was an - an accident, and ever since his magic has been volatile.”

“And what do I have to do with that?”

The woman jumps in. “We need an outside perspective. Watch him, try to see things we can’t. At this point, we’re willing to try anything. I’ve never seen him so…”

She trails off, and Tanner nods solemnly. 

“And if I help him with his - magic issues, you think he’ll help me with mine?”

The woman shrugs. “Well, he might.”

  
  


 

*****

  
  


 

“So when exactly are you expecting the wizard back?” Q asks once they’ve finished their meal. The woman - who Tanner calls Moneypenny - rubs her chin, a thoughtful look on her face.

“That depends,” Moneypenny replies.

“On?”

“Whether or not he’s found a new victim,” Tanner finishes, snickering as Moneypenny rolls her eyes. Q doesn’t understand what’s so funny about stealing someone’s heart for breakfast, but then again, he hasn’t spent much time around magic folk. Maybe they’ve just gotten used to Bond’s heart-eating, soul-stealing ways.

“Well, what am I supposed to do until then?” Q asks.

Tanner pauses, then looks between Q and the broken stove consideringly.

“You said you were a blacksmith?”

And so Q finds himself crouching behind the ancient wood burning stove, grumbling to himself as he tinkers and pokes at the dampers and flue bar. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, “You’re more important than people give you credit for, little stove.”

Tanner has disappeared off to do whatever it is nym - meli - _ his kind  _ do in the day, and Moneypenny is somewhere upstairs working on some sort of potion. Something about dreams, she’d said. Apparently, she is the Wizard Bond’s apprentice, having recently left the tutelage of Grandmaster Mallory (which is impressive in itself; even Q has heard of the Royal Wizard) to work in the field. 

The point is, all Q has for entertainment is this old black stove.

“It’s getting cold out, you know, and I’m sure those nice people would much prefer coming home to some warm soup than stale bread and cheese. They took you for granted while you were working, didn’t they? And now they won’t even bother to use their fancy magic to fix you. That Bond is probably too busy preying on helpless girls to pay much attention to a little thing like you.”

Another twist of a wrench, another bang to the side, and Q’s about finished. 

“Well, I like you, little stove. You’ve got real character. I’m sure they’ll all see that once I fix you up. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, after all.” Q tightens the last screw, letting out a wistful sigh. “I guess I know that better than most, don’t I?”

Q’s entire body feels covered with grease and sweat, so he reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief. From one moment to the next - as he wipes his face in the handkerchief and then peeks out from behind it - the stove bursts into life. It’s as if he’s flicked a switch, and in doing so a roaring fire has appeared.

He frowns. “If you were magical this whole time, then why didn’t you just fix yourself?”

“Oh, brilliant!”

Q spins around, startled. Moneypenny is standing there, grinning widely. 

“Was that you?” Q has no idea how long she’s been standing there, after all. She could have used her magic to start the fire. He hopes it wasn’t too long: it would be embarrassing to have had her witness him talking to an inanimate object.

“Was what me?” Moneypenny asks, bemused. “I’m just glad to finally have some tea. Tanner would never let me use his own fire to make any.”

“I’m a powerful being of myth, not a campfire,” Tanner says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Q just about jumps out of his skin, but Moneypenny hardly blinks.

She gives him a sympathetic, if amused look. “You’ll get used to that.”

Q doesn’t want to get used to anything about this place, but a deal’s a deal. It’s not like he has many options, anyway.

He’s pulled from his musings by the sound of the front door opening, and footsteps nearing their trio.

And who should poke their head in the doorway but the blond wizard from the gallery. The charming one, who’d kissed his cheek and taken him on an adventure. The one who’d gotten Q into this mess in the first place.

Oh, bother.

 

*****

**Author's Note:**

> you can talk to me on tumblr @glamdolf or @slverjohn :)


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